Well this is not so much about What I Learned in Russia as it is What I Did in Russia. And what exactly that ‘did’ is, was quite a bit over the last six wild days. I’ve had some epic stretches over here, but these last six event packed days could go toe to toe with any others. So back to the beginning and a cold, dark, walk home…
I’m on a (Siberian) Night Traaain…Ready to Crash & Burnnn…
I walked out of the internet café in Tomsk, Russia after having just posted WILIRT: I. For the previous two hours I’d completely lost myself in the world wide web; catching up on emails, posting a blog, Googling “Time Square Bomb,” snooping around Facebook, and ultimately detaching myself from my geographic reality. When I finally emerged from the basement café at 2am on the morning of May 6th, the streets of Tomsk were empty, dark, and quiet. My brisk walk back to the Hotel Sputnik lasted but ten minutes, but it perfectly captured the ever present feeling that permeated my entire experience in Russia – a feeling of complete surrealism. One second I’m reading about Frank’s engagement to Paula and my mind drifts back home, and the next I’m crossing deserted trolley tracks under a black Russian sky in Siberia. I found myself constantly reminding myself that my body was in Russia, and each time I did the feeling got more and more surreal. You’re eating ice cream, in Russia…you’re on a train, in Russia…you’re walking through a forest, in Russia…you’re brushing your teeth in a river, in Russia. But back to the meat and potatoes…
I slept like a log that evening and awoke the following morning to a cloudy and grey Russian sky. Perfect. I had an overnight train that evening departing at 7pm and a dreary day hibernating inside and mapping out Mongolia was just what I needed. So I did just that. Over two hours and three pots of tea I read the entire Mongolia guide and sketched a rough itinerary. When Sputnik finally kicked me to the curb at 2pm I found reprieve in a warm and inviting Russian version of Clyde’s restaurant. I slid into a comfy booth with three hours to kill and proceeded to down an order of herring, a chicken burrito, and two rounds of Standard Mark vodka. Seriously though, what is one expected to do? The menu order goes: salad, soup, vodka, meat, fish…
(Mongolia in a nutshell)
At 7:03pm sharp the overnight train to Barnaul lurched out of the station. Russian trains are punctual to the point where conductors will apparently sit idle just outside the station until their scheduled arrival time, sometimes for hours. Russian trains are obscenely expensive by Asian comparison. I balked several days earlier at the price tag of a 2nd class, four person compartment for $60usd and opted instead for the familiar 54-person 3rd class carriage.
I’ve now over-nighted on trains in Thailand, Vietnam, India, China, and Kazakhstan and Russian trains are by far the most sanitary and orderly. Every surface shines like it was buffed last week (vs. KZ – last year, Thailand – last decade, India – last century). Few pleasantries were exchanged with my fellow travelers, which was fine by me since all I wanted to do was pop my ear plugs in and watch Siberia roll by outside from the comfort of my top bunk. After the sun set, with help from some Bruce S. and M. Knopfler, I drifted off into the most peaceful sleep with warming thoughts of coming home and the final homestretch popping in my head.
The Siberian Express arrived into Barnaul at precisely 10:10am the next morning, some fifteen hours and seven minutes after departure. Russians, unlike their Kazakh neighbors, have bought into the brainy idea of locating their main bus terminals adjacent to their main train terminals (wow, what a novel idea Kazakhstan), so within an hour I was comfortably seated in a south bound bus and glued to the window watching a truly remarkable transformation take place outside. The uninspiring flat land of Russia was giving way to something remarkably beautiful. Something I like to call…
Rusgolia – The Country In Between
The Altai Republic is the southern wedge of Russia that borders Kazakhstan, China, and Mongolia. A clear departure from Russia but certainly not Mongolia yet, Rusgolia might as well be its own country. The first change you immediately notice in Altai is its stunning geography, a stark contrast from the Russia to its north. With mountain lakes, rushing rivers, snowcapped peaks and dramatic canyons, Altai has it all. If located in America it would proudly stand shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Glacier, Yellowstone, or Yosemite. The second change you notice are the faces. Gone are the stereotypical hard Russian facial features (think Putin or any dark visor-wearing MiG pilot from Top Gun, Iron Eagle, or Red Dawn), replaced instead by the dark central Asian mug closer to Kazakh or Mongol. The third defining difference is the building structures. Absent is any trace of the Soviet era cement housing blocks that dot Novosibirsk or Tomsk or Barnaul, replaced instead by all things timber. The two lane road that bisects Altai runs about 500km in length, and along its length I recall seeing not a single manmade structure built from anything other than Siberian timber. Incredible but moving on…
I spent the night of May 7th in the forgettable town of Gorno Altaisk, a required stop to register my visa in the tiny Altai Republic capital. The sunny morning of May 8th I purchased two things: a bus ticket south and my third most favorite clothing acquisition in Asia (coming soon to a bachelor party near you…). By noon the bus wheels were rolling and I found myself in a familiar place, glued to the window with camera in hand.
When the wheels stopped rolling around 4pm in the forgotten town of Onguday I was beside myself with joy. I’d just ridden through some of the most spectacular and unexpected scenery of Asia under a sunny blue sky, and was now being dumped at the foot of Lenin’s statue in a wooden town that looked like a film set from Deadwood. I located the lone hotel in town and after some teeth pulling was able to extract a room key and visa registration slip. With that I set off on foot into the golden afternoon light with the sole intent of getting lost. In short time it donned on me that I’d entered a place of pure Old West fantasy. From the decaying and modest timber structures to the billows of smoke rising from them, and from the scent of burning firewood heavy in the air to the sight of hand-drawn water wells, I honest to God thought I’d been transported back in time some hundred and fifty years. Save for a few telephone poles, there were vistas that contained not a single trace of the 20th century. Never in my life have I seen anything like it. It was total magic. Dude ranch – out. Altai Republic – in.
Like Brett Favre out of Retirement…
May 9th was an epic day for reasons other than being Unity Day in the Russian Federation. The 65th anniversary marking the end of WWII was cause for great fanfare in Russia. Every town from Tomsk to Gorno proudly displayed banners and signs marking the upcoming anniversary. Tiny Onguday was no different and pomp & pageantry had overtaken the streets by 10am.
I had a pretty good idea that I’d have to resort to it eventually in order to reach southern Altai. I crossed Australia and New Zealand by it and did it so many times in the Caribbean I stopped keeping track after #400 (true story), so with a bit of experience under my belt and the familiar excitement that anything can happen in my step…I walked out to the two-lane M52 highway, propped up my bag, stuck out my hand, and began hitch hiking yet again. Now before the parents in the audience throw a tantrum let it be known that hitch hiking is common practice in these here parts. In fact it’s a simple business transaction. You wave down a car, the driver names a price (or doesn’t), you accept (or don’t), and away you go.
Hitch hiking is a lot like riding a motorbike in that the adventure and excitement shifts from occurring in Point A and Point B, to getting from Point A to Point B. I’ve found there are true few travel moments as exhilarating as when after standing on the roadside for hours on end a speeding car finally slows down and pulls to a stop at your feet. And it’s from those proverbial fork-in-the-road moments (Do I get in or do I not?), that the stuff of travel fiction is born.
I’d been walking in circles and kicking rocks for an hour overlooking Onguday. Half a dozen cars had passed without as much as a tapping of the brakes. It was a little after noon and I had good reason to feel optimistic given the short distance to travel (100km) and the many daylight hours remaining. From my position I could see any car approaching from at least two kilometers away, so when the occasional vehicle did crest that far ridge I made ready. I’ve been utilizing the same technique for nearly a decade now: as the oncoming target nears I bring my waving right hand together with my left to form a prayer sign at the last moment. If it doesn’t score a sympathetic lift it always illicit a smile. I pulled this exact move when a large SUV flew at warp speed. Back to the horizon my eyes went. A minute later however the same SUV slowly crept past me going the opposite direction and pulled a quick U-turn. Jackpot!
When the passenger side window lowered I smiled and said “Ya nye gavaru pa Ruski. Ya iz America. Tourista. Aktash?” “That’s OK, you don’t need to speak Russian,” came the reply from the back seat in clear English. With that I found myself sitting shotgun in a fully packed Nissan SUV heading south with five early-twentysomething university students from Tomsk. All spoke clear English and we hit it off immediately. I explained my journey through Asia and they explained their work abroad experience in Alabama!?! As we gunned our way over the Chike-Taman Pass with Russian music blasting and laughs being traded, I knew something great was taking shape.
The five friends had driven ten hours from Tomsk to meet one of their parents at a camping site just north of my intended destination. After a few detours including a roadside lunch break, we eventually rolled into camp. Camp sat just off the road next to a picturesque and gushing river on the valley floor, flanked by towering mountain walls on either side. The campsite contained some thirty middle-age Russian adults, a dozen SUVs, dozens of tents, and a volleyball net. It was upscale Russian camping at its finest. I followed sheepishly behind the others as we walked into camp and were warmly embraced by the aging crowd. About that time Andre, the driver and youngest of the group, turned to me and said “You are thinking what to do next, yes?” I said yes and he extended the invitation to stay the night in camp. Russian hospitality, gotta love it.
“But I’ll likely freeze to death tonight in there…”
The afternoon and evening played out beautifully. We hiked up an adjacent mountain slope and enjoyed tea on its summit. We tossed around the frisbee, kicked around the football, and set up two tents. Despite helping erect them, I had no intentions of actually sleeping in them. I planned to ultimately sleep in the car as the combination of my paper thin sleeping bag and overnight Siberian temperatures would almost certainly guarantee I expired before dawn. Around 7pm the rain began to fall and we all huddled underneath the circus-like tent and ate a dinner of seasoned rice and cauliflower. Before long a guitar appeared and the surreal brilliance of the whole affair reached on a new high.
After dark the older generation retreated to their tents and out came the case of Russian beer I’d noticed in the back of Andre’s car. Sitting round the campfire with the heavens pouring down and a Russian girl strumming Bob Dylan, layered under four shirts, two pair of pants, three pair of socks, my jacket and wool hat, I closed my eyes and enjoyed one of those remember-this-feeling moments. Surreal and then some. By the time the brew dried up it was after midnight and every article of damp clothing on me smelled of burning wood. I expressed my intent to sleep in the car from fear of my inadequate sleeping bag, but everyone was adamant I’d be significantly warmer in the four person tent. I finally acquiesced and after running through the rain to retrieve my bag from the car I ducked into a four person tent alongside a river in Siberia next to three Russians. They lied. It was cold.
At dawn the following morning, May 10th, I awoke to silence. No rain. I emerged from the tent to find camp already buzzing with activity and blue skies in every direction. I threw up my arms in a great stretch and yelled “Rusgoliaaaaaa!” to everyone’s delight. My destination that day was my final stop in Russia, the desolate outpost town of Kosh Agach, several hundred kilometers to the south. After helping pack their car and just before goodbyes, Andre’s older sister Ingrid informed me that their father could give me a lift halfway to Kosh Agach. Gold! Two lifts, one nights lodging, and an epic story to boot…may have been my best hitch ever.
(Q: How many Russian can you fit atop a tiny rock?)
(SBO slept here. It was cold.)
With their campsite completely packed away, the band of weekend camping nomads pulled back onto M52 heading southbound in a caravan of SUVs. I sat giddily in shotgun of Andre’s father’s Pathfinder and we exchanged not a word. The scenery along the bottom half of the Altai Republic proved to be the most dramatic. Blue skies framed picturesque snowcapped peaks and vast steppes filled with wild horses. After an hour the caravan pulled over at a turn off in the road next to a decaying village. From here I was on my own, so I walked to the far side of town and set up my pack. Once situated I began to reflect. Given the prior day’s events, the dramatic surroundings, and my current predicament I will always fondly recall standing by that roadside in Nowhere, Russia waiting for a lift as one of the most unbelievably surreal moments of not only this journey but my life. Impossible to describe the feeling.
A bit after 1pm I scored a final lift all the way to Kosh Agach from Alexi, a friendly Russian father of two who enjoyed dance music and driving fast on familiar roads. I had previously read that the final stretch of M52 into Kosh Agach was like “arriving at the end of the Earth.” Usually such travel descriptions fall short of delivering, but this one did justice. As the kilometers rapidly ticked off the mountain scenery gave way to an arid, rocky, high desert landscape devoid of vegetation. Forget the Earth, I’d landed on Mars. When Kosh Agach finally rose out of the horizon like a desert oasis, I was overcome by a warm feeling of accomplishment and security. I’d done it. I’d passed through Russia unscathed and in the process written another chapter filled with great and unexpected memories.
Alexi dropped me at the only hotel in town and we shook hands. I say hotel but the Hotel Tranzit was more like a neglected and dilapidated off-campus college frat house. The floors sagged and the wallpaper peeled. The owner and his family were incredibly friendly, but his hotel will go down as one of the grossest in my Asian rolodex. I took a hot (thank God) shower and set off on foot to eat and explore this most peculiar Wild West town. More Kazakh influenced than Russian and more Muslim than Catholic, Kosh Agach truly felt like the end of the Earth. I can honestly say that in no other single location in Asia have I felt further from home than in Kosh Agach. By early evening I made my way to the southern edge of town, to the place where the timber shacks end and the empty steppe begins. I stood there for a long while looking south at the mountains and the gateway to my last chapter: Mongolia.
(Kosh Agach rising in the distance)
(Five star Hotel Tranzit)
(Lenin: Every towns got one…)
Mongolia: In Through the Backdoor
By 9am on Tuesday morning May 11th I’d secured my transportation in the local market from Kosh Agach to the Mongolian city of Olgii, in an Asian version of a beat-up CJ7 for 400 rubles ($13usd). I had all my Russian paper work in order and felt confident the border crossing would go down smoothly. The rarely used western entrance into Mongolia was a border crossing I’d dreamt of since watching Boorman and McGregor ride through the roughly 30km of No Man’s Land that separates Russia from Mongolia. I just always thought it’d be incredible to stamp out of Russia and ride down a desolate road that calls no country home.
The paved road to the Russian border took about an hour to cross as the jeep didn’t go over 40kmph. I know this because despite the jeep’s broken speedometer our pace was all too reminiscent of my speed across India. Seated in the middle back seat with camera in lap, I enjoyed a near perfect vantage point to film as much of our two border crossings as possible without asking for trouble. Russian immigration went as smooth as I could have hoped and after an hour we were back in the car waiting at a gate to be released into the buffer zone.
(The proud owner of a certain yellow Defender 90 would have been proud)
The moment we left Russia proper I giant smile landed on my face. I was out! With that the cheery Mongolian sitting shotgun turned and yelled “Welcome to Mongolia!” into my lens. It was perfect. After twenty minutes of riding on smooth, paved asphalt we arrived at a guard house, where on the other side the asphalt instantly disintegrated into a muddy dirt track. Without missing a beat our driver gunned the jeep and my courtship with the legendary tracks of Mongolia officially commenced.
Passing through Mongolian immigration was like ordering drive thru at Roy’s. I walked in one door, filled out nine simple boxes on an immigration card, handed it to someone standing behind a nearby podium, received a stamp in my passport, and walked out another door. Total cost: $0.00usd. Total time: 5 minutes. May Mongolia be a beacon to the nations of the world…
Back in the jeep our first stop was a tiny nearby shack, just before the dirt track snaked back into oblivion. Inside I enjoyed one of my best plates of food of Asia; a steaming pile of mutton filled dumplings called buuz, a classic staple in Kazakhstan and central Asia. So incredibly good.
The three hour ride to the city of Olgii was pure enjoyment. The dirt tracks weaving this way and that in the shifting rocky desert was exactly what I’d pictured. On the horizon the occasional cloud of racing sand marked an oncoming vehicle. When two tracker trailers come into view kicking up a minor sandstorm of dust, I remember thinking how much the scene resembled the opening of Star Wars as the jawa’s transport vehicle inched across the dunes.
We eventually arrived in Olgii and the friendly guys dropped me off at one of the three lodging options in town. I quickly found a bank and exchanged a B. Franklin note I’d been holding expressly for the occasion. With a hundred and forty three thousand Mongolian togrog in my wallet I found perhaps my last clean bed for awhile and some very entertained hotel staff.
(Somewhere between Russia and Mongolia)
(Got Gold?)
(Get Buuz?)
(‘Highway’ to Olgii)
Well that’s it people. Six wild days and six unforgettable resting places: an overnight Russian train car, Finding Nemo bed sheets in Gorno, ultra basic accommodations in Onguday, a riverside tent in Chibit, a dilapidated crash pad in Kosh Agach, and finally a red-carpeted Soviet hotel room in Olgii, Mongolia. Certainly a week to remember, and as today marks four weeks to go I intend to make it a month to remember…
So what did I ultimately learn in Russia?
Attractive legs reside in attractive university towns, and seldom elsewhere.
Hard earned paperwork ultimately finds its way to the garbage bin.
A Trans-Siberian railroad journey would certainly be a clean one.
The Old West is alive and well in central Altai.
The end of the Earth can be found at a place called Kosh Agach.
Russians aren’t so scary after all.
Dear Mother Russia,
Thank you for the memories & thank you for not killing me.
From Russia With Love,
SBO
Indefinitewalkabout's Blog 
